Australian Tales (part IV)

By Richard Davidson

The Story so Far: Alphonz is a righteous little wombat, with a lobster who is no less. They have been spying for the French Government, under the disguise of severed giblets in a basket. Neither has any Bicycle playing cards, which is unfortunate for the endangered meals in Chapter VII, which will never be written.

Alphonz, who, if you had read the other six parts to this tale, is our hero, specialized in convoluted, hard to read run on sentences. He was standing in a Kentucky Fried Water Slug in Argentina, wondering what had happened to Switzerland, where he had been originally bound. Dean and Bob, the dangerous wolves with the angry pronoun habit had removed their sportscoats and ordered drinks in the Cantina. Neither spoke Swahili, but neither was proud, either. They’d had about one bobcat too many, last Thursday, and who was that dwarf, anyway?

Only six days ago, they’d been circling Alphonz in the stateroom of a wretched yam, when he’d finally gotten his porcupine suit to work, sticking long, mildly poisonous quills deep into the tender noses of the two best dressed timberwolves in any story on this website. As they yowled helplessly at a poster of the moon on Alphonz’s wall, Angela DuBois ran out of the room, disappearing through a crowd of unkempt animals, and Regis Philbin, who was never using this cruise line again.

As the Glenville High School Band marched up and down the aisles of the ship, Miss DuBois managed to rendezvous with the Board of Directors of the Bank of Stockholm, and disappear into the thick rain that pelted the ignorant sea. So much for oysters, and so much for empty, retarded irony. Everybody knows empty, retarded irony is the wombat’s natural enemy.

It was 7:15, and they were completely out of nuns. Nobody had much to say to anybody, and it looked like my cousin Patrick wouldn’t be written into the story after all. Alphonz was thinking of getting in some surfing. His lobster was doing quite well, and had already won a solid gold medal depicting St. Agatha rescuing a treeful of kittens. A group of hungry welders were staring at him, and it wasn’t the first time Alphonz wondered if his days were numbered.

Alphonz walked slowly over to his lobster, and sat in the sand behind him.

“We really didn’t accomplish what we set out to do, you know,” Alphonz’s muted words hung in the air like battered preachers.

“We let the French government down, and so we are nothing but a disgrace to our country, and our queen.”

His lobster began furiously scratching out a message in Morse code.

“We.....are....not...F-r-e-n-c-h.....” Alphonz spoke as if buzzards had nested in his left cheek.

“We are......not.....S-p-i-...Spies.”

Alphonz took a bit out of his cabbage, and furrowed his brow.

“Say, when did you learn how to do this -ow!” His lobster nipped him on the ankle.

Over the next sixteen hours, his lobster explained that they had never been spies at all until part IV, and that the writer was probably indulging his lack of organizational skills, and that whether Angela DuBois got away, or Sister Mary got her tooth fixed was of no concern regarding their original mission, which was to have an adventure in the Swiss Alps.

The fact that they were now in Argentina was of no importance, other than the fact that none of their electrical appliances would work, since the main point had been to have an adventure, which they certainly had. Every few minutes Alphonz stopped to ask how long his lobster had known Morse Code, and received yet another painful nip. He was beginning to look like he did back in the days when he shaved with broken glass.

Alphonz didn’t know which way was down anymore, and he retired to his hovel for some shuteye. His lobster would take care of everything. Either that, or he would panic, and reveal the author’s home address.

As the helicopter soared over the Italian Alps, Alphonz awakened from his dream of playing Rugby for the South Wales Dungheap, and was pleasantly surprised by the fact that he really hadn’t drooled all that much. They would be in Switzerland soon enough, and they were free to be themselves, as Switzerland is a neutral country. They would stay in a town where the streets are rivers of hot chocolate, and nobody has to work at Sears.

The pilot looked familiar, until Alphonz realized it was Regis, who he, for the most part, didn’t know.

“Thank God for Regis,” Alphonz laughed as he dropped his chewing gum on a village the size of your shoes.

For the next seven and a half days, the six of them had the most wonderful time any three people have ever had. Regis played the part of Henry the VIII, Angela DuBois made a cameo appearance as Edna, and Alphonz was left with more of the pudding than any of them had counted on. Sir Edmund Hillary was never to be an accomplished piano player, but Lord how he tried!

“Chopsticks” was the perfect background music for the pinochle tournament, and wasn’t everybody surprised when the Polka band turned out to be the Harlem Globetrotters! It really couldn’t have been a better weekend, and Alphonz turned to his lobster, beaming.

“I don’t see how he’s going to write an ending for this one,” he slobbered, leaving out several consonants.

“There’s really no adequate way to sum up the events of these last sixteen years.”

For the first time in recorded history, his lobster spoke, in an ancient language Alphonz had a hard time understanding. Everyone knows ancient languages are the wombat’s natural enemy.

“I wouldn’t be too sure,” his lobster squealed in Aramaic, as he turned into a butterfly and floated off into the sun.

And from that day on, he was known as Harold.

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